The morning passed most pleasantly, and the Colonel was more satisfied than ever with his companion.  Dane was well versed in forest lore, and the ways of the feathered and furry creatures of the trails were to him an open book.  Gradually and tactfully the Colonel led him to talk about his life, but on this subject he became more reserved.  He spoke enthusiastically about his mother, and how much he owed to her.  His father, however, he never mentioned.  The Colonel was far from satisfied, as he had learned really nothing about Dane’s history, nor how his parents happened to be in this country.

They stopped to eat their dinner by a sparkling spring which bubbled from a wooded hillside.  They were hungry, and thoroughly enjoyed the good things Mammy had provided.

“I suppose this is a common occurrence to you,” the Colonel remarked when he had finished his meal.

“It has been my life for years,” was the quiet reply.  “I hardly know how to eat at a table.”

“Have you no home?” the Colonel asked.  “Is your father not living?”

“Yes, I believe he is living, but I have not seen him for years.”

“And why not?”

To this question Dane made no reply.  He sat very still, looking down through the trees into the valley below.  The Colonel at first became impatient, then angry.

“Look here, young man,” he began, “if you are to have my daughter, I must know something more about who you are, and where you have come from.  Why do you not wish to tell me about your father?”

Had any one else spoken in such a peremptory manner he would soon have learned his mistake.  As it was, Dane found it difficult to control himself.

“I cannot tell you now,” he quietly replied.  “I must explain nothing, so please do not press me further.”

The Colonel was now thoroughly aroused.  His fighting blood was stirred, and he turned angrily upon his companion.

“Are you ashamed of your father?” he roared.   “Who is he? and what has
he done that you won’t tell me about him?   Surely------”  He paused
abruptly, while a look of consternation leaped into his eyes.   He
reached out and clutched Dane by the arm.   “Tell me,” he demanded, in a
voice that was but a hoarse whisper, “is your father an Indian?   Speak,
quick.   I must know the truth.”

With a gesture of impatience, Dane threw aside the clutching hand, and sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger.

“No, my father is not an Indian,” he cried.

He was on the point of saying more, but restraining himself, he picked up his gun and slipped swiftly away among the trees.  Down into the valley he moved, hardly caring where he went.  For the second time in his life he was afraid of himself; for the second time he fled from an angry grey-haired man, not through fear of what might happen to himself, but what he might do.  His soul was stirred within him, and the blood surged madly through his veins.  But now, as on that other occasion, he was saved by a mighty influence from being one with the beasts of the forest, and that influence was the prevailing power of love.